


Amuse-Bouche

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [15]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels with Genitalia, Domestic, Food Play, Genderplay, Love, Oral Sex, Relationship Negotiation, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 02:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Oh, Lord. He shouldn’t have turned around. The summer has driven Crowley out of his pyjamas. More often than not, he sleeps in shorts or nothing at all. But he never– Aziraphale can’t recall a time– it’s not–“Is that… my shirt?”Crowley peers down as if he – oh dear Jesus – not, he – she hadn’t noticed. “Oh. Yeah.” She gives him a drowsy grin. “It was on the end of the bed.”





	Amuse-Bouche

**Author's Note:**

> \o/ And with this fic, I celebrate hitting 250,000 words of Good Omens fanfic in 110 days. *toots horn*

The front and back door are both open, letting the warm spring air wash through the house.

Everything is pristine. The cushions are lined up in perfect order on the couch. The rug is aligned between the edges of the couch and the desk. A cluster of flowers blooms – with just a little help – in a rather charming vase on the window ledge.

And, in the sprawling kitchen, Aziraphale hums worriedly over the selection of neatly-cut triangular sandwiches on the broad rectangular platter on the counter. There are plenty of options, of course. He is, by nature, a people-pleaser, so he has even remembered the gluten-free and dairy-free varieties for Ethel’s niece. She may or may not be coming, but better to err on the side of caution.

The teacups are already outside on the tables in the garden, the kettle is full and ready to go on and there are a couple of delicious cakes under glass covers. It’s meant to be a lovely day and his knitting circle are always inviting him to their houses, so it seems only fair that he hosts for once.

“Wassis about?”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn at Crowley’s sleepy voice.

It’s almost ten-thirty already and he’d left the demon sleeping two hours earlier so he could make sure everything was organised. He carefully folds a sheet of foil over the sandwiches, though he hardly needs that to keep them fresh. “My guests will be arriving in a little while, my dear. Just making last preparations.”

“Guests…” Crowley echoes.

It lacks the edge from the night before, but when Aziraphale had brought it up over dinner, Crowley’s reaction had startled him. They had even argued about it, though he had pointed out it was far too late for him to cancel any plans with less than twelve hours to go. It seems such a silly to be angry about, but at least Crowley doesn’t seem so angry now.

Aziraphale smooths the edge of the foil. “I know I ought to have asked you if you minded,” he says self-consciously, but I–”

Oh, Lord. He shouldn’t have turned around. The summer has driven Crowley out of his pyjamas. More often than not, he sleeps in shorts or nothing at all. But he never– Aziraphale can’t recall a time– it’s not– 

“Is that… my shirt?”

Crowley peers down as if he – oh dear Jesus – not, he – she hadn’t noticed. “Oh. Yeah.” She gives him a drowsy grin. “It was on the end of the bed.”

It was, as Aziraphale had picked through his favourites, trying to choose which one to wear. And now, it’s draped over Crowley, held closed by only two buttons, clinging to the curve of her breasts. She reaches up to push her cascade of loose red hair back and it rides up, and Lord, Aziraphale’s eyes drag inexorably downwards. His heart gives a peculiar thump when he catches a glimpse of red hair where usually there is none.

“You–” he begins, though it comes out far more strangled than he intended. He clears his throat, wets his lips. “Why this form, darling? Today of all days?”

Crowley shrugs, padding into the kitchen, feet bare, each nail painted in a red as fiery as her hair. “Thought I’d try and blend in with your friends.” She hops up to sit on the edge of the kitchen table, pushing back crystal bowls of jam and honey. Long pale legs swing back and forth, swaying like the tail of a serpent.

Blend in. With half a dozen grey-haired geriatric human women.

Wearing Aziraphale’s own shirt, which even now is gaping over her thighs and chest.

“You might,” he manages to say, “want to put something else on.”

“Mm.” Crowley yawns, propping one foot on the edge of one chair. “How’s it going? Being all… organised?”

Well, up until two minutes ago, it _had_ been going perfectly.

He forces himself to turn back to the counter. “Quite well, thank you.” He picks up the platter of cupcakes, schooling his expression before he turns around. It isn’t quite enough when he catches Crowley, a guilty look on her face, as she licks honey from her fingers. “Crowley!”

“It’s honey!” the demon protests. “You know I like honey!”

A true and valid argument, but sticking one’s fingers in the bowl of honey intended for guests is just–

“There’s a whole jar on the counter!” he exclaims, setting down the tray of cakes. “Honestly, I know you weren’t pleased about me having guests, but do you have to make a mess of everything?”

Crowley huffs. “It’s not that I’m not pleased about you having guests,” she says, eyes flashing. “I’m not pleased that you didn’t even bother asking me if I’d mind!” She gestures around. “S’our place, angel! And you’re bringing in a bunch of strangers! People _I_ don’t even know!”

Aziraphale stares at her, as pieces fall into place. Oh Lord, he hadn’t even thought. Crowley’s history, his past in a life where anyone could be an enemy. Of course he would be wary of potential enemies in their one safe, sacred space.

“Crowley,” he begins, trying to find the appropriate words for an apology. He crosses the floor, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. “Oh, darling. I’m such an idiot.”

Crowley huffs, tilting her cheek into his hand. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Aziraphale leans down to kiss her, lips first, then cheeks, then cheekbones, brow, and the tip of her nose. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Crowley sniffs. “You’d better.” She looks down with a groan. To save his waistcoat, it seems she pressed her hands in against her chest. “Oh for the love of…” There’s honey on the shirt and – oh sweet Lord – a sticky trickle is running down from collarbone beneath the folds of the shirt. “Forgot about the honey.”

Aziraphale can’t tear his eyes from that rogue drop. Can’t have it making a mess now, can he? He bows his head and drags his tongue up the exposed skin. Crowley’s breath catches.

“Is that a good idea?” she asks.

He raises his eyes to her, then nudges aside the edge of the shirt, chasing the droplet down, down, down. The shirt is in the way, so one twist and another undoes the buttons. It spills wider and he makes a sound of pleasure, lapping up the sweet dribble from between her small, soft breasts.

“Mm.” Crowley shifts in front of him, the table creaking softly under her. Her sticky-sweet hand moves into his line of sight and she squeezes one pert pink nipple. His face is so close and his mouth is dry as he watches the delicate peak rise, hardening at her touch, tantalisingly slicked and wet.

Well… it would be rude _not_ to tidy up…

His mouth closes on her nipple, sucking and lapping the honey from her skin. Crowley’s shrill gasp is like fire through him. Her fingers – clean hand this time – sink into his hair, pressing him closer, and he can’t help but wrap his arms around her waist, beneath the shirt no less, pulling her body closer to his. Her nipple is hot and hard against his tongue and every time he sucks on it, her fingers clench, jerking harder on his hair.

He splays his hands on her hips, steadying her when she arches her back against his mouth.

“Temptress,” he murmurs around her nipple, then nuzzles her breast. She laughs, her sticky fingers brushing his chin, along his lips, and Lord, he could not stop himself, even if he wanted to. He parts his lips and she thrusts her fingers into his mouth, groaning at the sweet heat of them.

“You _like_ it,” she breathes, thrusting over and over against his tongue, his voice a purr of pleasure. His fingers dig into her back, making her hiss, and she only makes it worse when she wraps her legs around him, pulling him flush against her.

Aziraphale lifts his head from her fingers and her breast to stare at her. Good God, she’s magnificent, her cheeks flushed, her eyes gleaming like molten in the morning light. He sweeps down, ravishing her mouth and she laughs against his lips, licking honey from them with delicate – oh Lord in Heaven – forked flickers of her tongue.

It’s– she’s– they–

He breaks from the kiss, breathing hard, and Crowley’s tongue curls against her sharp white teeth and – under his helpless, hungry stare – she dips her fingers back into the bowl of honey, then uncurls her fingers over her exposed body, golden droplets pattering like rain and rolling in slow trails downwards.

Words catch in his throat, a low moan escaping him, and Crowley’s eyes dance as she proffers her fingers to him again.

“Wicked creature,” he groans, catching her wrist. He plants a heated kiss on her palm, chasing it with a stroke of his tongue that makes her legs tighten around him. And then each finger is worshipped, lavished with thorough and heated strokes of his tongue and sucks of his lips, until she’s making small, urgent, wanting sounds, her body writhing against his.

He meets her eyes as he draws his lips from her thumb, then bows his head, placing a chain of nectared kisses around her throat. Not enough, it seems, because her fingers clench in his hair, pushing him lower, and who is he if he doesn’t obey his lady?

Each golden drop, each fleck, is licked and gathered from her skin. He cradles her hips as he suckles on her breasts, darting his tongue over and over to be absolutely sure he has caught every drop and even after he has, to be sure she knows _exactly_ what she has unleashed. And oh, she knows. She knows from the sharp tugs in his hair, the half-gasped, half-moaned ‘angel’ and… and oh Lord, the hot, wet press of her unexpected sex against the front of his trousers.

The honey has streaked lower and when he gently pushes her legs apart and stoops, he feels her tremble. He looks up with a smile, then kisses the sweetness from her ribs, her belly, dipping his tongue into her navel and oh, that makes her jerk against his hands. He nips the soft flesh of her belly and then chases those final drops down, sinking to his knees between her splayed thighs. The honey glistens like beads of amber in the soft nest of red curls she has never worn before.

Aziraphale is mesmerised, spreading his hands on her smooth, bare thighs. “Darling…”

Crowley lifts her head to look at him, her eyes dark and heavily-lidded. “You like it,” she says huskily, cheeks flushing. “Wanted to see what the fuss was about.”

Aziraphale strokes her thigh gently. “And so far? Compared to external?”

She flashes a twitch of a grin at him. “See what you mean about the wet.” She shifts her hips, leaning back, one hand braced on the table behind her, and takes a shivering breath. “Go on.”

“If you change your mind–”

“I know,” she murmurs, watching him.

He places his lips against each thigh in turn, drawing on it, leaving beautiful dark rosettes on the pale skin. A reminder of what he can and will do, if she changes her mind. And then, he slips closer, lifting her thighs over his shoulders, and presses his mouth to her sex.

Crowley gives a small whimper, her fingers curling in his hair, as he strokes his tongue against her, taking in the lay of the land, seeking out… ah… yes. He closes his lips and draws on the little throbbing bud that always delights him so much and–

“Fuck!” Crowley gasps, her heels thumping against his back. Her crossed ankles trap him there, pulling him closer, wordless encouragement, and he squeezes her thighs as he buries his face in her, devouring her. His tongue delves into her, then he spread it flat, dragging hard and firm, to seek out that pressure point that makes her twitch and writhe against him. He nudges it with the tip of his nose as he lips, curling his fingers, raking bruising marks into her thighs. “Jesus – oh fuck oh _fuck_–”

Aziraphale’s world is nothing but Crowley now, every sense smothered in her and it _begs_ for some – any – physical response. At once, his trousers feel unbearably tight, made worse by her rutting against his face demandingly.

“Cr-Crowley,” he breaks off, panting, lifting his lips away, cheeks and chin slick.

The demon stares at him, wild-eyed. “Don’t _stop_!” she exclaims indignantly.

He pats her thigh, taking gulping breaths. “My dear… my dear…” He meets her eyes. “I want to _fuck_ you.”

Lord, he wishes he could have captured the small, desperate sound she made. She pulls on his hair, pulling him upwards, and as soon as he’s in range, she in his arms, her mouth hot and greedy on his, her tongue flickering, claiming the taste of her from his lips, one hand fumbling between them, reaching into his trousers and wrapping her fingers around his hardness.

“Oh!” He rocks against her palm, the throb of want increasing tenfold.

It’s a temptation to sweep everything off the table and have her there and then, but… but…

“Bedroom,” he groans.

Crowley laughs breathlessly, flinging her arms over his shoulders, “Spoilsport.” Her legs are tight around his waist and she rocks against him. “Not going anywhere.”

He stares at her, then scoops his hands under her thighs and lifts. She laughs in delight, crushing her mouth to his, as he stumbles towards the door to the hall to get to the bedroom. They collide with the frame and the damn demon isn’t making it easy, grinding herself against him, his loosened trousers slipping down over his hips.

“Crowley!” he protests between eager, demanding kisses. “You’re – very – distracting!”

She grins at him and he feels the fingersnap against his shoulder and bare skin presses against bare, hot, wet, inviting skin. “I’m impatient,” she purrs, sliding her sex against his, pressing down and all he has to do, all he needs to do, all he–

The wall is right there and it brings back some rather nice memories when he slams her up against it and follows her with a thrust of his hips. She cries out as he buries himself in her, the heat of her body driving every possible thought from his head.

“Oh… oh my word…”

Her arms tighten around his shoulders and she’s breathing hard against his lips, shivering, quick breaths, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, flickering against his own.

“Crowley? Darling?”

Her fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder and she rolls her body, a delicious, obscene sensuous curve that he feels down every inch of him, driving him deeper. Her eyes find his, solid gold now, pupils wider, her lips curling back from her teeth.

“You know what you want, _angel_,” she breathes, teasing her lips along his. “_Do it_.”

His hips move before she finishes speaking and he thrust against her, pinning her in place with his body, driving her inch-by-inch, a little further up the wall. Her thighs are a delicious vice, locking him in place, urging him closer, her hips grinding against his. He can’t help but stare, drinking her in, dazzled and breathless, her hair fanning around her, head thrown back, neck a curving temptation that he can’t help biting.

“Fuck!” Crowley cries out, sinking her fingers into his hair again, holding him harder, closer, and Lord, he’s lost in her and, somehow, some way, she flips them and he’s back to the wall and she’s… she’s over – on – somehow kneeling on the wall, shaking her hair back over her shoulders and Lord, no, can’t have her doing–

Another roll and somehow, she’s still on top and he’s halfway up the wall and she’s laughing, her hair spilling down sideways towards the floor and his hand slips down between their bodies, remember how Crowley always teases him, his fingers easing between their thrusting, rocking hips to find–

She moans happily, rolling her hips forward to meet his touch. “Oh yeah, angel… ye…” She goes rigid suddenly, and not in the good way, her eyes widening, and she looks along the hall. “Oh _shit_.”

Aziraphale stares at her. “Wh-what?”

Crowley nods urgently to the open front door. “Cars.”

Cars?

Aziraphale’s eyes widen in shock. His guests. His guests and he– he’s halfway up the wall in a _very _compromising position with his half-naked lover. “I need–”

Crowley lunges down over him with a very deliberate rock of her hips that makes his eyes roll in his head. “Oh no, _angel_,” she purrs. “I’m not done with you yet.” She rolls him again and they reach the edge of the ceiling. She grins at him, feral and savage and good Lord, she has never looked more ravishing. “Fuck me, angel. Fuck me _hard_.”

Of his own volition, his hips jerk and she cries out.

No. Oh no.

He flips her onto her back, pinning her on the ceiling with his own body, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Sh!” he whispers. “Please!” Her golden eyes gleam at him and God damn it, she wraps her thighs close around him and… _ripples_, undulating against him in ways that make his whole body shudder with want, his… his cock throbbing painfully. “God damn it, Crowley!” he hisses out.

Her tongue flickers against his palm, and he can feel her grin, her hair spilling down around them like a veil. The sensuous roll of her hips smashes his inhibitions to pieces and though he can hear footsteps approaching the door, though he knows half a dozen gentle old ladies are less than twenty feet away, he slips and arm under her back, pulling her against him and takes her mercilessly.

Her eyes widen in surprise that turns into panting keening pleasure under his palm. Her breath is ragged and hot on his palm and she gropes down, clutching his backside, urging him, faster, harder.

“Mr. Fell!” Doreen calls, tapping on the door. “Coo-ee, Mr. Fell!”

His lungs heave in syncopation with Crowley’s, hips surging against her, but he gathers his fragmented wits. “Go through to the garden,” he calls, making his voice echo as though through the bedroom door. “I’ll be with you in mo-OH-oment.”

Crowley chuckles hot and unrepentant against his palm, unhooking her nails from his backside. He glares at her, holding her still until his guests trot through the house, never noticing anything untoward, then rips his hand from her mouth and smothers her with a heated kiss. Crowley’s groans are stifled as he thrusts his tongue against the demon’s, slipping his hand down between them and stroking against her mercilessly until she’s shuddering and clawing at his back.

He tears his lips from hers, pressing them against her throat. “You absolute bastard,” he growls, leaving stinging, scorching bites against her skin, trying to ignore the building, surging aching between them. He press-rubs his thumb, crushing it between them and sucks hard on her earlobe.

“…oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…” Crowley’s voice is barely more than ragged pants now.

“Brought this on yourself,” Aziraphale gasps out, thrusting hard and harder against her, until she shudders in his arms, her hands fluttering against his back, scrabbling helplessly.

“Love you,” she whispers, her voice breaking sharply and damn it! He – she– they– his parts tighten and he buries his face in her throat as his orgasm washes over him, flooding him in a rush of breathtaking, dizzying pleasure.

They cling to one another, his face lost in the cascade of her hair, breathing in the scent of her. There’s honey on her skin, he notices vaguely. From his own lips, he supposes. Gently, gently, he licks at it as his breathing comes back under his control.

Crowley’s fingertips are tracing circles on his back and she gives a low, contented sigh, squeezing her thighs around his hips. “Mm.”

“You’re still a bastard,” Aziraphale murmurs, nuzzling under her jaw.

“Mm-hm.” Crowley shifts her hips, drawing another low groan from him. “Down?”

Aziraphale nods, holding her tight against him and with care, lowers them gently back down to the floor. Crowley unwinds her legs from his waist as soon as his feet touch the ground and both of them hiss softly as she lifts herself away from him. He steadies her with an arm still around her waist and a wary glance towards the door.

“Won’t notice,” Crowley murmurs, leaning into him.

“You don’t know that.”

The demon gives him an amused look. “Yeah I do,” she says, leaning in and kissing him gently on the cheek. “You know I don’t like to see you embarrassed.” She drops a kiss in his slack, startled lips. “Made sure no one saw or heard anything.”

“But I thought– you acted as if– I thought you did it on purpose!”

She laughs, eyes dancing. “Demon,” she says, as if that excuses everything. “Anyway, you surprise me with guests, I… well… I’m going to keep you on your toes. Unpredictable, me.” She gives his backside a gentle squeeze. “Come on, angel. Can’t keep your guests waiting.”

Aziraphale pulls her closer and kisses her again. “You’re a bastard,” he murmurs, when he draws back, “but I must say I’m awfully happy that you’re _my_ bastard.”

Crowley’s eyes shine. “Likewise.” She glances up, then winces. “We might need to give the ceiling a touch-up later.”

Aziraphale risks a glance up. There are some truly impressive dents and spatters. “It can wait,” he says and walks into the living room.

“Oi!” Crowley catches him, dragging him back with a laugh. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Forgetting something?” The angel frowns, puzzled.

Crowley grins at him, then her eyes flick over him from head to toe. “Something?”

He looks down and immediately feels the heat burning in his cheeks. “Oh Lord! Yes! Clothes!”

“Unless you want to say you’re a nudist or something,” Crowley said, grinning like the snake she is. She reaches out and catches a very particular handful. “They might like that.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale swats at her hand. “Stop that!”

She presses her lips together, clearly fighting down the laughter, and withdraws her hands. “I’ll behave,” she says, though it’s hardly convincing when she’s standing there, feet apart, nothing on her but his sex-rumpled shirt, slick wetness gleaming on her inner thighs and hair a tantalising cascade around her.

Aziraphale huffs and, in the name of expediency, snaps his fingers to manifest his clothing back in place. He smooths it down, then smiles when thinner finer hands adjust his tie, patting it in place.

“Perfect,” she says, then snaps her own fingers, and instead of any of the gorgeous, glamorous and extravagant outfits she normally chooses when she’s in female form, she’s in her usual black trousers, but on top…

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, throat a little tight at the sight of it. “That’s _still_ my shirt.”

She flashes a glint of teeth at him, as she rolls the sleeves up over her forearms, then adjusts her belt, cinching it in at her waist. It looks… it looks far too good on her and all he can think of is everything they have just done. He can still see a smudge of honey on the collar.

“A little reminder,” she says. She steps closer to him, eyes gleaming and warm. “You know I don’t like being upset, angel. Consider this your visual cue to remember that. Next time, we talk about plans in the house before you make them, yeah?”

Aziraphale nods, reaching for her hand. “You know I _am_ sorry about that. I didn’t even think.”

She steps closer. “Yeah, I know.” Her other arm loops around his waist. “And next time you will. Or I’ll have to be even more… unpredictable.”

And coming from Crowley, that is an utterly terrifying threat, even if today’s unpredictability had left him wonderfully winded and his legs rather tremulous.

He lifts his hand to cup her cheek, kissing her as lightly as is possible. “And if I make such a mistake again, I will take my punishment without complaint.”

Her eyes shine and she kisses him again. “Now,” she says, stepping back and putting her hands on her hips. “Are you going to introduce me to people?”

Aziraphale’s smile returns. “Of course.” He hesitates, then picks up her glasses from the table by the door. Home is the place where she never wears them, after all, but that’s only and ever because it’s just them. Now there are other people and Crowley is– it’s a very particular thing, when Crowley chooses to meet people with her eyes uncovered. “It’s sunny out. Do you want these?”

She gazes at them, then at him. “Only for the garden,” she decides, snatching them from his hands. “It _is_ sunny out, after all.” She offers him her other hand. “Come on, angel. Introduce me to your friends.”

Aziraphale squeezes her fingers. “Happily, my dearest.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find [me and my ramblings on my tumblr](https://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> If you enjoyed it, please let me know :D If you have suggestions what they should get up to next, I'm open to them :)


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